Waiting
by PuckRox
Summary: A short story told from the POV of a girl who can no longer pay her 90 debt. Set on the night of her 90th day. Winner of the deviantart Repo-Army group's first contest.


The rain fell, loudly hitting the pavement in rhythmic patterns that could almost have been considered somewhat soothing until a crash of lightening would strike the air and you would be left quivering in fear once more. The streets were empty, and the alleys, usually filled with scalpel sluts and zydrate dealers, were silent. The only sound that could be heard for blocks was the sound of the rain beating down on the concrete streets.

I had never felt so alone.

I sat in a murky, foul alleyway, back pressed up against a crumbling brick wall, knees tucked up against my chest with my arms wrapped tightly around them. My whole body shivered, the cold scratching up against my unclean skin. I didn't seek shelter. I didn't bother.

I knew he was coming.

The days had gone slowly as I counted them, one by one, every night knowing that I was getting closer and closer to my deadline. I tried everything to earn enough, every trick in the goddamn book. As I sat there, trembling in the cold, I knew that no trick would help me now. No one was going to come and save me. There was nothing left for me to do.

So what was the point of running?

Wasn't it only three months ago my father had woken me in the middle of the night? There had been so much fear in his eyes, so much sorrow, as cheerless tears trickled down his pale cheeks. He had quietly explained to me how he had managed to scrape together enough money for my 90 day payment, but not enough for himself. At first my brain couldn't accept the words he was telling me. I refused to believe that a man would soon be at our house to repossess my father's needed organ. I pleaded that he ran as quickly as possible, trying to believe that if he were to he could get away.

And then we heard someone kick open the front door.

My father fearlessly shoved me underneath my bed, telling me not to make a sound. I didn't want to watch, but as the boots of the Repo Man came into plain sight I could not tear my eyes away. My father began to beg for his life, something I never thought I'd live to see. He had been so strong, raising me on his own, and I had looked up to him all my life. Now I saw my courageous hero crumble.

In one fell swoop, I watched the Repo Man take my father's life.

I shut my eyes, not wanting to see the spinal cord be ripped from his back. I stayed under the bed, waiting until the Repo Man was gone. Once I knew it was safe, I crawled out. I stared for a long time at my father's lifeless body, so unsure of what step to take next.

I gave him a proper burial. I had no money to bury him in a cemetery, so I had to settle for the little land we had in our backyard. A part of me regretted this, knowing he'd rather be buried next to my mother, but I figured he'd understand.

Then I began looking for money.

I had nothing of value to sell. My father had sold my dead mother's jewelry already to pay for my 90 days, along with any other valuable possessions we had. I was able to hock a few valuable items that were left over. After 30 days I grew desperate and sold the house, but even that wasn't enough money. I took a few needed items with me and sold everything else there was to sell.

I began living on the streets. I came to loathe the grimy dumpsters I climbed into every night to sleep in, the rotten smelling people I was constantly surrounded with, and everything else that my life had become.

Still desperate for money, I began to work for zydrate dealers. I would sneak into the graveyards at night and extract the zydrate from the corpses. When I gave them the product they desired, I would get paid a lesser amount than what they sold it for to their customers. But I never complained.

Until 60 days had passed. My desperateness became franticness.

I started to go as far as to sell myself to men. They had been mostly zydrate junkies, though sometimes, if luck smiled on me, I'd get a business man or someone with actual money. I hated giving up my virginity, but I didn't know what else to do. More than a few times some of the men, after finishing off inside of me, would run away without paying, leaving me to fell unclean and pathetic, standing half naked and alone in abandoned alleyways.

Even though I was beginning to make enough money to pay, I still had pick pocketers to deal with. One night I woke up to find someone rummaging through my things. I shooed them away before they could take everything, but they still managed to grab a fifth of my money.

Today was day 90.

In the end I couldn't collect enough, no matter what I did or how hard I tried. So as I sat there, alone in the dank, dark alley, I did not cry. What good would tears do me now?

The sound of footsteps finally caught in my ears. I could tell from the sound of each step the person took it was him. I recognized them as the footsteps that came to take my father's life that night 90 days ago. I didn't move. I wouldn't move. I knew that any attempt to run or hide would be futile. Why waste my breath?

No matter what I did, he would find me. I knew the stories and heard the terrible tales, so I wasn't going to be like any of the other pitiable customers who couldn't pay their debt. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't scream. It'd be an honorable death, at the least.

So I sat, waiting for him to come. Waiting for him to take my life.

And I was ready.


End file.
